


The Animosity

by Kardinalka



Series: The Red and the Blue [3]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Captain Treville - Freeform, Cardinal Richelieu - Freeform, M/M, Renaud Mary, Richelieu - Freeform, Trevilieu, les trois mousquetaires, team trevilieu, three musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 07:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14131023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kardinalka/pseuds/Kardinalka
Summary: Great thanks to @freyalor for her beta reading!





	The Animosity

**Author's Note:**

> Great thanks to @freyalor for her beta reading!

An autumn sun went down over the forest of Saint-Lambert.

Darkness coated the beech trunks like honey, rain fell in large drops from dark clouds above through the leaves of the old trees.  
It's the cold that woke him up. A damp chill, the sound of raindrops falling on the forest soil, the smell of wet leaves. He slowly shifted himself up with his hands and sat down. His right ear was ringing, and no matter how he tried to cover it with his arm, the pain remained. That ear was dead.

His clothes were soaked, stuck to his skin. He felt numb, shaking, light-headed, unable to sort through hiw own thoughts. He couldn't think straight, but realized he very much had to. He struggled to stand, stumbling to the nearest tree and leaning upon it.

Wet hair fell onto his face in wiry traits. He pulled it back and looked around the dark forest. Gingerly, he walked off towards where he thought the nearest village to be, leaning on trees, fighting the nausea that every movement of his stiff body caused. He descended down the hill, sliding upon wet soil, only to understand he had no idea where he was. That didn't quite stop him. Fear, in fact, kept him going, because he knew that if he stopped to rest, it would be his end.

  
Under the hill, a forest stream made twists and turns into a small valley. He staggered from a small cliff to the narrow muddy shore and bent down to the water. His legs gave up on him right there, and the Cardinal fell on his knees, hands splashing into the icy water.

"Oh God..." he groaned quietly and closed his eyes.

  
He wanted to sleep, he craved sleep. He wiped his face with his wet palms and pointlessly tried to wash out the blood from his hair.

  
Somewhere in the woods in front of him, he heard a horse trotting.

  
He lifted his head sharply, searching for the rider in the dim light of the forest. The sound of approaching hooves sparkled the last strenght in him. He had to get out of there, because thout he coudln't understand why, he felt this rider wasn't there to save him.

  
Listening intently, he picked up the soft clatter running closer around him. He could either hide, run or fight.  
He found shelter under the roots of a fallen tree, creeping darkness helping him to hide. He reached for a stone, carved and brought under his hand by the water, crawled backwards into the roots and closed his eyes.

From where he laid, he couldn't hear the hooves above the sound of water anymore. He dared his eyes open, staring at the stone in his hands. He could barely see it in the dark, but it felt smooth and glues with algae. With a sigh, he rested his head backwards and gripped the dead roots.

He made a decisions.

He got rid of his wet, heavy coat, and let it slide away over the edge of the stream. Gathering his strenght he climbed up the other side of the valley, faster and more ardently, because this time, he knew where he was going.

 

The bear had him cornered, and the only choice he had left was how exactly to face the beast .  
And he was not a man to hide. He never was a coward.

 

He ended up almost running to the top of the hill, heedless of the blood in his mouth, the pain, and how helpless he was. He caught a glimpse of the resting horse, he saw the silhouette of the rider walking among the trees. The horse stomped and turned his head towards the Minister. Two short pistols were emerging from the saddlebags.

  
The rider turned around.

The Cardinal ran, dropping the stone.

He yanked one of the guns out of the saddlebag and pointed it at the approaching man. He didn't recognize him, he was just a silhouette. His ear started thumping again, treatening to paralyze him with dizziness again. He vaguely thought he might have forgotten something.  
He unlocked the gun's safety with trembling fingers and shaprened his aim.

The man didn't stop, and the Minister started to make out a few details. The hat, the strong leather raincoat soldiers wear.

The one musketeers wear.

He was afraid to understad.  
Really, really scared.

The soldier came up to him, closer until the barrel of the gun was pressed against his chest. Only then, he stopped.

  
The Cardinal gasped, the gun shaking in his hands, so hard he had to grasp the handle with both hands. He couldn't utter a sound, merely gazing at the Captain's face. Treville suddenly raised a hand, grabbing the pistol by the barrel and pulled it out of the Minister's hand effortlessly, securing the saftely in the same move.

  
Armand de Richelieu straightened up.

  
Though drenched to the bone and nearing exhaustion, bloodless and dirty, the Cardinal still struck the Captain of the King's Musketeers right in the face.

Treville just narrowed his eyes and watched the man facing him.  
Richelieu looked more like a ghost than any living creature, and if there wasn't that stream of blood trickling from his mouth, the captain would definitely deem him to the world of the dead.

A pale, slender hand rose for the next blow, but it got caught in a stronger, effortless grip that pulled the Cardinal towards the other man. Richelieu resisted, but not for long.

  
The Musketeer threw the gun on the ground, wrapped his free hand around the narrow waist and slammed the man against himself. The dark eyes burned with defiance, anger, pain.  
But the lithe body trembled in his hands, its last forces fading, and he felt it fall, watching the heavy eyelids drop.

  
He held the body of the Cardinal de Richelieu as he passed out into his arms.

He stood there in silence, holding that man he always hated, holding that man he only wished he could hate now.

He stood there in the woods near Saint Lambert, picking up the limp body into his arms and hauling it on his horse. He jumped on the saddle, opened his wide cloak and secured the thin man against his chest, wrapping him into the sturdy fabric. He took a firm hold of the reins.

 

 

Only few words were spoken that day in the woods near Saint-Lambert.

 

 

Words, after all, were not necessary.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
